After signing in the visitors' book we follow a security screw in through a maze of high-powered, sliding see-through screens and security doors, that makes a man feel like he's in the process of being decontaminated, until reaching the inner sanctum of the hospital's castle-like walls and courtyards, where thankfully there's a modic.u.m of apparent freedom and the regime seems at once more relaxed. The first nutjobs we set eyes are a few harmless looking old codgers pottering about in frayed bathrobes and soft-soled bedroom slippers, like awayday pensioners doing the seaside shuffle. Each seems preoccupied with some non-existent task or thought and is either muttering to himself or staring silently into oblivion. It dreads me to think how long some of these mushes have been here, but one thing's for sure, once you've been certified insane, the only certainty is that you ain't going to be getting out of here in a hurry, because once old mother nuthouse has clasped you to her bosom like a long lost child, you're hers forever.

A sudden pang of pity finds me moved at their plight, but it stops almost as soon as it starts when I remember that ninety-nine per cent of this mob are noncey killers and rapists that have committed terrible transgressions against fellow human beings. Yeah, I know we're nasty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds ourselves, but we only kill and maim other criminals, whereas the loony tunes in here will f.u.c.k you half to death with a red-hot poker and then gouge out your eyes with a pencil, before chopping you up into little pieces with a cleaver and boiling your head for brunch. After which, they'll go strolling in the park to feed the ducks as though nothing untoward ever happened. That's why not any common or garden criminal can make it through these hallowed doors. Broadmoor is for deluxe fruit and nut cakes only! And to prove my point we've just walked into the visits room, a modern and well-appointed outhouse, that's unfortunately infused with an aroma of boiled cabbage and stale p.i.s.s. Sitting on a table by a far window is the housewives' choice himself, Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorks.h.i.+re Ripper. We start to call him all the dog-c.u.n.ts under the sun, until a screw steps in to warn us that if we don't shut it he'll terminate our visit. We ain't happy because if this was a proper nick, that gap-toothed slag would be served right up with a severe beating, not sitting on a visit looking out over green fields eating chocolate biscuits and having a cup of tea.

Ronnie Kray arrives in his normal manner and one befitting his former status as London's premier gangster. He's suited and booted, courtesy of Peac.o.c.k, and his bearing is erect and proper. He enters the visits room alone and with both hands clasped firmly behind his back and his head held high. Still managing to exude an aura of dignity and menace after having been snapped in two by the system takes some doing, but underneath the bravado it's clear he's a broken man. He's also a lot thinner than his infamous sixties photos, a mere shadow of the man that terrorised the East End of London and put the fear of Christ up the establishment. But looking at the whole package and bearing in mind that they pump him full of enough drugs to keep Larry happy, he carries himself well enough for a nutrock that's been deprived of his liberty for over twenty stretch. Alas, things get sadder as Ronnie gets nearer, because on closer examination things ain't what they seem. His nose seems more bulbous than what I remember, and both it and his cheeks are blotched and red and dotted with bluey veins, giving him the appearance of a postcard drunk. Behind his expensive, horn-rimmed gla.s.ses, his eyes are milky and distant, and it's patently obvious that someone somewhere has f.u.c.ked up his measurements, because he's veritably swimming in the suit that Peac.o.c.k has made him. But none of us says nothing because we don't want to ruin Ronnie's day, and so, as soon as he approaches we all rise to be treated to one of his legendary, vice-like handshakes, after which we all sit down informally around a square Formica table.

'h.e.l.lo, Ron,' says Danny, breaking the ice. 'How you doing?'

'Smas.h.i.+ng,' says Ronnie, there being a slight tremolo in his soft and effeminate, delinquent c.o.c.kney. Quite unlike his twin Reggie who speaks East End gruff and proper.

'h.e.l.lo, Ron, how you doing?' I say.

'Smas.h.i.+ng, Billy,' says Ronnie.

'This is Peac.o.c.k,' I say. 'He made you the suit, Ronnie.'

'Smas.h.i.+ng,' says Ronnie.

'You're my hero, Ron,' gushes Peac.o.c.k, frothing at the mouth and seemingly on the verge of coming his load inside his trousers. 'I've modelled my whole style on you and Reg.'

'Smas.h.i.+ng,' says Ronnie.

Knowing that the conversation ain't going to get much better, I hurry up proceedings by ordering Ronnie's expected luxuries. Four large cans of Barbican non-alcoholic lager and two hundred unfiltered snout, that arrive post-haste, by way of one of Ronnie's lackeys. Ronnie, whose chain-smoking habit has left him with a hacking cough, slowly breaks open the first of his near-beers, takes a couple of gulps then lights the first of what will be his many cigarettes, and of which he only ever smokes each one three quarters down before replacing it with another. And it's a surreal sight watching one of London's most feared gangsters puff away in the manner of silver screen legend Greta Garbo.

After holding out his top two fingers in a V sign, Ronnie places each cigarette at the very top then slowly raises the cigarette to his pouting lips, after which he inhales deeply before tilting back his head to blow a theatrical kiss of smoke towards the ceiling. The three of us sit goggle-eyed at Ronnie's camp ritual, as in between lighting his next cigarette, his tongue slowly works its way out of the corner of his mouth to loll gently over his bottom lip, and his head drops forward as though probing one of us for a French kiss.

'Can I buy some chocolates for the boys?' says Ronnie, cutting through an embarra.s.sing couple of minutes of thumb-twiddling silence.

'Sure, Ron,' says Danny. 'Anything you want!'

'Smas.h.i.+ng,' says Ronnie, snapping his fingers in the air, the signal for another trustee inmate to come scampering over and stand to attention, pen and paper at the ready. Ronnie starts to dictate his order, and I'm horrified to hear that the Yorks.h.i.+re Ripper has been included.

'We ain't buying that c.u.n.t f.u.c.k all, Ron,' I say, spitting razor blades.

'Peter's all right, Billy,' says Ronnie. 'He's harmless really.'

'f.u.c.king harmless, Ron?' I say. 'The slag's killed thirteen f.u.c.king birds with a ball-peen hammer. How can he be f.u.c.king harmless!'

Ronnie's face goes blank and hard, and it don't take Einstein to work out he don't like being challenged. But f.u.c.k it, he ain't the king of east London no more, he's the queen of Broadmoor. And if he don't like it he can go back to his padded cell, p.i.s.s in his pants and stamp his feet like a naughty schoolboy. We rule the f.u.c.king roost nowadays, and this c.o.c.kamamie c.u.n.t ain't no more than a curiosity in a curiosity shop.

'Make you right, Billy,' says Ronnie, after some deliberation that proves he ain't as mad as they make him out to be. Turning to the trustee he then says. 'Yeah, leave Peter out, he's a c.u.n.t.' After which, he then goes on to finish the order.

'Any news on the film they're making about you, Ron?' says Peac.o.c.k, s.h.i.+tting bricks at me and Ronnie's conflagration and attempting to change the subject.

'Done and dusted, Peac.o.c.k,' says Ronnie. 'But I got the right hump with Roger Daltrey. Don't care if he is a rock star. He never showed me and Reg enough respect. I'd like you to do me favour, Danny.'

'Yeah, sure, Ron,' says Danny.

'I'll give you his phone number and I want you to tell him I need to see him. You know, kid him along and get him to come up here to see me. Then I'll cut him to pieces on the visit.' Danny kicks me under the table, and it's all we can do to stop ourselves from bursting into fits of laughter.

'Yeah, no problem, Ron,' says Danny, poker-faced. 'We'll do that for you. Won't we, Billy?'

'Yeah, no f.u.c.king problem, Ron,' I say. As if we've got the slightest intention of getting involved in such ridiculous f.u.c.king nonsense.

'Smas.h.i.+ng,' says Ronnie, happy once more.

'D'ya think you'll ever get out here, Ron?' says Peac.o.c.k.

'I don't really care,' says Ronnie. 'But if I do get out, I'm going to go on a round the world cruise. Then after I've visited all the places I wanna see, I got an outstanding list of slags I'm gonna kill. Then I'll be happy to come back here. I got everything I want in here and they all wors.h.i.+p me, even the screws.'

Now it don't need me to tell you that the man is obviously two tacos short of the full enchilada. And this sort of b.o.l.l.o.c.ks is exactly why the twins got their bird.

'Got someone I'd like you to meet,' says Ronnie, continuing. Step forward Charlie Smith. 'Charlie's very talented. Plays guitar and writes his own songs. I was telling him that you've got contacts in the world of s...o...b..z. We sent out a tape to Simon Cowell, but he ain't come back to us yet.' And I'm looking at this f.u.c.king dinlow and thinking, no f.u.c.king wonder! Because no disrespect to Ronnie Kray's eye for talent, but Charlie Smith's hovering over our table, looking like the b.a.s.t.a.r.d offspring of an a.n.a.l f.u.c.k between Batboy and the Bearded Lady. And my first thoughts are that if this man's got any talent at all, it's for looking like he should never be released back into civilised society.

'Charlie's in here for killing his cell mate,' says Ronnie.

'Two cell mates,' says Charlie, obviously peeved by Ronnie's under-calculation.

'Sorry, Charlie. Two cell mates. Billy, I think that Charlie could be the next George Michael.' Personally, I have my reservations and judging by the silence coming from Danny and Peac.o.c.k, they do too. Thankfully a screw arrives and orders us to end the visit, and so, we all jump up to leave. Over hurried goodbyes we make all kinds of bulls.h.i.+t promises of stardom and record deals for Charlie Smith, as Ronnie slips me a demo tape of Charlie singing. After promising my life away by a.s.suring Ronnie that I'll do my best to punt the tape round Tin Pan Alley, I do no more than lob it in the hospital's main rubbish bin on the way out. And as we all climb back into our motor and get ready for the journey home, I resolve that the only time I'll visit this gaff again is in a straitjacket and howling at the f.u.c.king moon.

OUR FIRM'S QUICK action in closing down the Rites' Southend car showroom has paid dividends. For Jacko Rite, under intense pressure from his brothers to keep up his end of the bargain, has just belled us to let us know that The Bug's just flown in from Spain. Which means he's over here to draw in his dough from yet another successful puff smuggling operation. The other good news is that as soon as he arrived, Jacko Rite managed to sweet-talk him into a meeting at one of his old offices, a disused car site at the top end of the Ess.e.x road, in order to discuss our firm's business proposition. Also running in our favour is the fact that his minder, Skinny O'Neil, is on his toes after a shooting incident, which means that The Bug will be on his lonesome, and therefore ripe for picking. This is a short notice swindle, but we've been primed and ready for action since day one, and so, no sooner do we get the nod through the grapevine than we rush to the safe house, tooled up, psyched up, and ready to go to work. After piling into a ringed Transit van with blacked-out rear windows, and with Frankie, Stevie and Danny upfront, and me in the rear, we slip out of Custom House and trundle eastbound along the A13 towards our destination.

While being tossed about like a s.h.i.+p's stowaway in the cavernous hollow of the back of the van, courtesy of Stevie's s.h.i.+t driving and the stop-start traffic, it gives me time for reflection, and I can't help but feel kind of bad about the fact that we're on the way to kidnap one of our own, but then reason, f.u.c.k it! In for a penny, in for a pound. Speaking of which, us four against The Bug and Jacko Rite, is a darn sight better odds that slinging a knicker on the lottery, and then feeling like a right c.u.n.t when your numbers don't come up. After thirty minutes or so we reach the car site in question. Stevie parks up in an adjacent alley and I pull down the peak of my baseball cap, check my gun and climb quietly out of the rear to hook up with my firm, whose heads are now similarly attired. While Stevie and Billy proceed to stake the gaff out, me and Danny wait nervously by the side of the van. Through a handy crack in the alley wall, Frankie lets us know that The Bug's Mercedes sports is parked up outside the building, while Stevie, after taking a quick walk past the site to have a sly gander, comes back to announce solemnly through pursed lips that everything's kosher, and so in we go. This kidnapping has to be quick and clinical, as we're not too far from a busy trunk road, and don't want to discharge firepower and draw attention to ourselves, because if we f.u.c.k up here and Old Bill flops on us, we've got no chance of outrunning them in a diesel Transit van. And the last time I looked they dish out twenty stretches for kidnappings. As the four of us moves as one towards the door of the car site's main office, through a set of dust covered window blinds we can see The Bug and Jacko seated around a desk, deep in animated conversation. At which stage I'm thanking G.o.d that both Jacko and The Bug are skinny s.k.a.n.ks, because I would imagine that fat b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are a f.u.c.king nightmare to kidnap.

Danny's through the door first as usual, but all of us are hot on his heels, guns drawn and knowing we have to move fast in case The Bug's tooled up himself. But as we bear down on him and Jacko, a look of sheer terror spreads across his face and his hands make no move to pull out any ironware. It's too late anyway, because in the blink of an eye we're on the pair of them like a pack of hungry African hunting dogs, spitting and growling and ready to tear limb from limb. Kill or be killed, whatever the case maybe, because nothing or no man comes between us and our greed. As Danny and Stevie proceed to smash The Bug unmercifully into the ground, I pistol whip Jacko, fracturing his skull with a loud crack before laying him face down in his own blood on the carpet and screaming at him, 'Keep your f.u.c.king eyes and mouth shut, you slag, or I'll put one in your f.u.c.king nut!' It don't matter that Jacko's in the swindle, he has to get hurt, because if he don't the whole thing's going to stink to high heaven. Once I'm satisfied he's been mollified, and under no illusions that I'll kill him even though he's a pal, I drag him to his feet, stick my gun in the small of his back, and after checking that the coast is clear, march him to the van as discreetly as possible, where I then force him into the rear with instructions to lay down and stay down and keep his f.u.c.king trap shut. Another sweep up and down the street reveals everything to be sweet, and so, I give my firm the thumbs up, and Stevie and Frankie come out carrying The Bug, unconscious and badly bruised like a drunken groom on a stag night, before dumping him unceremoniously inside the rear of the Transit alongside Jacko.

But as invariably happens on gangster graft things don't go exactly according to plan, for on the journey back to Canning Town, The Bug digs deep down into his soul to find some fighting spirit and rages up, kicking and screaming in all directions. He's given ten out of ten for his bols.h.i.+e b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, but then beaten back to oblivion under a welter of professional violence that sees his ginger mooey used as a stomping ground by one of Danny's black commando boots. With the life further stamped out of him, his body switches into safety mode and he slumps into semi-consciousness for the rest of the journey. We hit Canning Town and head straight towards one of our boozers, handily closed for refurbishment, and that sits on its own plot amidst a litter-strewn acre of wasteland, backing onto a maze of empty s.h.i.+pping docks. Once Stevie has backed the Transit tight against the pavement, I slide open the side door of the van and jump out to lever up the wooden delivery doors that lead directly down to the boozer's beer cellar.

Stevie and Frankie then pull up the metal chute that's used to roll down the beer kegs, after which, the four of us climb back into the rear of the van. After a serious bout of huffing and puffing, semi-conscious men being nearly, but not quite as heavy as dead men, we drag our two captives out onto the pavement, before hurling them through the open cellar doors as though they were no more than a couple of bags of dirty laundry. Both men tumble ungainly down the chute before coming to a bone-crunching halt on the concrete cellar floor, amidst stacks of empty kegs and cases of booze. And as we seal their fate by slamming the doors shut over the top them, all that can be heard to remind us that we're dealing with fellow human beings is the occasional m.u.f.fled groan.

Once we're happy the coast is clear, the four of us then slip in through the rear entrance of the pub, lock the door up firmly behind us and make our way down to the cellar in order to get negotiations under way. After blindfolding and tying each man to a separate chair, it's agreed that Jacko's of no further use, and so me and Danny drag him away into the staff toilet and tell him that if he makes a move he'll never see another sunrise. Once Jacko's been sorted we then drag The Bug into a large, vault-like room which has been soundproofed by the previous owners who used it as a recording studio. So now he's sitting there all alone in his very own antechamber to h.e.l.l and with not a friend in the world, and surrounded by four gangsters that would muller their granny for the dough he'd be sitting on right now, if only he hadn't been kidnapped and tied to a pub chair. And if he don't spill the beans, we're going to be spilling his guts. Standing a foot away and looking down at The Bug, it's plain to see the beating he's taken has already started to take its toll. His left eye is swollen up in its socket like an overripe peach, and the eyelid's split so deep it resembles an open wallet. His upper lip has been ripped in two, resulting in a jagged tear that runs from the top of his mouth to the bottom of his nostrils, exposing one of his front teeth. And every once in a while he lifts his head from his chest, stares blindly around and mutters incomprehensibly. All in all it's a sorrowful state to be in, but this ain't no time for pity, it's time for business.

Danny steps forward to take over the runnings, and the first thing he does is let The Bug know the obvious. He's been kidnapped and we want to know the whereabouts of his dough. Whether or not he understands what Danny has just pointed out I don't know, for he says nothing, just bleeds a little more over the carpet, which is not a clever move, because that means it's now torture time. And Danny excels in the black art of indescribable pain. I've seen him in action countless times, inflicting more than was necessary to get less than was required, but one instance sticks out in my mind the most. It was going back a few years when Danny's moll, Kelly Amore was looking after her uncle's off-licence in Custom House. One night this lairy black dude, who was a bit of a face amongst the s.c.r.o.t.es on the plot, strolled in and ordered a couple of cans of Special Brew, and then strolled back out without paying for them. Kelly Amore took off after him into the street and remonstrated loudly, telling him that he was a bad man for behaving in such a way. By way of return he told her he was going to wait for her one night after closing time and rape her for being the white c.u.n.t she is. Bad mistake, because Kelly Amore went home in tatters and floods of tears.

Word got straight back to Danny, and in less than two hours he had found out exactly who the slag was, and where he lived. He then belled me and we both slipped out and got hold of some firepower and a ringed motor, then went straight on the dude's knocker that night. The flats where he lived were absolute khazis and a dumping ground for all the filth in the area. As expected, the lift was out of order and every spare inch of wall and door on the building had been graffitied on. Plus, the whole place stank of p.i.s.s and rotting food. Twelve flights of f.u.c.king stairs we had to climb and each one smelling worse than the one below. By the time we reached our man's hovel we were both heaving with sickness and panting from shortness of breath. One look at Danny also told me that his blood was at boiling point, which didn't bode well for our Special Brew-snagging, would-be rapist friend, who unbeknown to him was on our most wanted list and less than two minutes away from nearing the end of his s.h.i.+tty and pointless existence. Thankfully his door weren't much thicker than plywood and had no deadbolt, so we crashed straight though into a pigsty of a gaff to find our man sprawled out on the floor in front of a ten-year-old TV, spliff in hand and not a single piece of furniture in sight. It's a bonus when you stumble in on a toerag living in such squalor because it dehumanises them, making it easier for the conscience to remain clean after their disposal.

While I scouted the rest of flat for more sc.u.mbags, Danny went garrity and proceeded to smash the black dude's mooey to bits with the b.u.t.t of his sawn-off. Up and down it went like a piledriver hammering in track bolts, with Danny's face contorted like a man possessed and each strike ending in a sickening crunch of bone and teeth, until a once black face was beaten to the colour and consistency of a burnt ham and cheese omelette, smothered with las.h.i.+ngs of tomato ketchup. Now it was time for the real punishment to begin. Between the two of us we dragged him out of his flat and down the stairs by his lice-infested dreadlocks, kicking, punching and pistol whipping him down the whole twelve flights. By the time we reached the bottom he had been scalped of nearly all his hair, and his skull was bleeding heavily from the holes torn out of his head. After bundling him into the boot of our motor we drove a short distance to a slaughter we own up on the Mile End Road. There, we blindfolded and gagged our man and beat the f.u.c.k out of him again, after which we went out for some Chinese. We then sort of forgot about him for almost a week, and when we eventually flopped back on him I was surprised, and Danny gutted, to find him still clinging tenuously onto what was left of his life. Danny thought it was a stinking liberty that he was still breathing, and so, for some reason known only to himself, pulled out his blade and carved the nipples off of the dude's chest. That gave him the flavour I think, because every day after that I had to drop Danny over to the slaughter, where he'd amuse himself and vent his frustrations by cutting single slivers of skin from the man on each visit, before feeding and watering him to keep him alive. This torture lasted about two weeks, but by then Danny had grown bored of his little game. So one night we bundled the dude back into a motor and drove him to a patch of waste ground on the Ess.e.x wetlands where, after kicking the last piece of s.h.i.+t out him, Danny poured petrol on him and set him alight.

Due to his injuries the man was too weak to even scream as the flames enveloped him, and to be honest I think he was glad that death had finally arrived to rescue him from his last few days of agony. And as we turned to make our way back to our motor, a large flame shot skywards from his burning body, to embrace the night sky in an eerie flicker that lit Danny's face up, and I swear to G.o.d that the smile that had spread across his face was that of the Devil incarnate. As we climbed back into our motor, Danny took one last look over at the dude and said to me.

'Now that's what you call a proper barbecue, Billy. Roast n.i.g.g.e.r.'

So Danny goes to graft on The Bug. Just a few right handers to start with, not big bombs but still hard enough to liven a man up and cause him possible brain damage. Under the first a.s.sault The Bug groans and blood splatters from his face all over the show, but give the man his due, he soaks up the punishment like a seasoned pro-fighter and stays schtummo, which gets me to thinking that this c.u.n.t could be a h.e.l.l of a tough ginger-nut to crack. But then Danny moves up a gear and smashes his shoulder blades to bits with a stonemason's hammer. Six smashes in, The Bug mumbles something, and the four of us moves forward in the hope he's broken, but our hearts sink when we realise that all he's muttering is 'f.u.c.k you, f.u.c.k you' over and over again, the words spitting from his busted mouth as if they were poison. And although I'm gutted because I thought we were on the verge of a breakthrough, if I was wearing a hat right now I'd have to take it off to the man, because I know that if that was me in the hot seat getting smashed to smithereens, I would have gone belly up a long time ago.

As Danny continues to go about his wicked business, me, Stevie and Frankie step back into the half-light to have a smoke and shake our heads, thinking that the coup's f.u.c.ked because The Bug ain't far from mullering, and yet there's no still sign of him cracking.

But then Danny tells us he's had a brainwave and slips into the staff toilet, only to reappear brandis.h.i.+ng a plastic bucket full of dirty water and with a wicked smile spread across his face, which goes to show he's a man that enjoys his work. After placing the bucket on the floor, he yanks The Bug forward in his chair, forcing his head underwater, where he holds it for about a minute, and all the while The Bug's lower body is bucking violently like a convict getting juiced in the electric chair. Two repeat dunkings later and Danny sits The Bug back upright. Only now his once white face has turned mottled blue, his eyes are bulging, and his tongue is hanging twisted and swollen outside of his mouth, like a the fresh victim of a lynching.

But in spite of The Bug's condition Danny goes to work some more and livens him up with a flurry of spiteful, bone-crunching digs up the ribs, before standing to one side and grinning like a Ches.h.i.+re cat, as The Bug seems to come back to life. Lurching forward in his restraints he retches, spraying a foaming torrent of blood and s.h.i.+tty drain water from deep inside his lungs, before once again fighting like a Trojan for every breath that his broken ribs will allow. After finally coming to rest, he then mutters something that sounds suspiciously to me like the sweet song of surrender.

'He's cracked. He's f.u.c.king gone, I can tell,' I say, moving quickly forward and getting right in between him and Danny. 'Let him be, man, he's trying to rocker something, listen to him.'

'Listen to him?' says Danny. 'I am f.u.c.king listening to him, and he's talking b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. It's not even f.u.c.king English. He's carrying on like a f.u.c.king Paki or something. This f.u.c.king piece of ginger s.h.i.+t is sitting on about three mil, and all he's doing is playing Joe c.u.n.t.'

'Nah, nah, I can definitely make something out,' I say again.

'We want names and places, not mumbo f.u.c.king jumbo,' shouts Danny, getting ready to sink The Bug's head into the bucket once more.

'Well, if you f.u.c.king shut up,' I shout at him. 'I'll be able to tell you what he's rockering. Look, just move over there and I'll speak to him on my own, otherwise I can't hear a f.u.c.king thing.'

'That slippery s.h.i.+tc.u.n.t knows the score,' screams Danny back at me, as he backs off a couple of feet. 'You f.u.c.king tell him, he's got one way out of this, or I'm gonna slit his throat and throw him in the f.u.c.king docks, like the c.u.n.t-eyed mongrel he is.'

Jesus f.u.c.king Christ! I'm screaming to myself. Danny's so engulfed in his own greed and the thrill of torture that if he's not careful he's going to kill the golden goose. Besides, I really don't want to see The Bug take any more punishment. The fact that he's been kidnapped is enough of a bargaining chip, surely. So what's the point of beating the man almost to death, so that he's incapable of telling us f.u.c.k all?

And so, after kneeling down by the Bug's side I tell him that all we want is his dough and then we'll make sure we get him to a hospital, p.r.o.nto. He nods in the affirmative so I then go on to remind him that all we're dealing with here is dough and he's got plenty of that already, and no matter how much he's got it won't be no good to him if he's a vegetable or six feet under, after which, he nods again. An acknowledgement that sends me over the moon because it finally means we're getting somewhere.

'How much you want?' he manages to croak weakly.

'What's he saying, what's he saying?' screams Danny from the sidelines. 'I heard him saying something.'

'He wants to know how much we want,' I shout back.

'How much do we want? How much is his f.u.c.king life worth?' So that's that! I tell The Bug there's no deals. He has to hand over the full whack. Of course, we don't know what the full whack is, but he don't know that. And so, after finally realising it's do or die, he chokes a little in the back of his throat, coughs up a large parcel of blood-streaked phlegm, then nods once more, at which point I turn to my firm and give them the thumbs up. With The Bug unexpectedly cooperating, the tension in the cellar begins to dissipate and the atmosphere at once seems more relaxed. As best as he can out of his broken mouth, The Bug starts to spew forth details in slow, stuttery syllables, attempting to explain the exact whereabouts of the hidden treasure.

With the patience of a saint, and a pen and piece of paper, I eventually cobble together the directions, whilst all the time still having to rea.s.sure The Bug we're going to let him live once we've got his dough. I'm also having to keep Danny at bay as he lingers in the background, growling about how we should carry on the torture until we're sure The Bug ain't having us on. But as I see it, we've beaten one positive lead out of the man so far and so there's no need for further punishment at this stage. Leaving The Bug in the capable hands of Stevie and Frankie, me and Danny drive as instructed to a multistorey car park behind a supermarket in Ilford town centre. The ground floor of the car park is full when we arrive, but as we ascend slowly up the ramps that join the floors, the lines of parked cars gradually thin out and on reaching level five we pull up to see only two cars occupying the entire floor. After checking the registration number of a green, late model Citron estate, I tell Danny that this is our baby, and so we pull up alongside.

While Danny waits in the driver's seat I get out and give my eyes a chance, then discreetly as possible run my hand under the front left wheel arch. Bingo, there's a set of keys taped under there, just as The Bug said there would be. I smile and nod to Danny, open up the car and climb in, and after retrieving the parking ticket out of the glovebox, I then drive the car back to our slaughter in Mile End with Danny bottling me off close behind. Using screwdrivers to take off the car's interior panels, we're greeted by a sight to warm the c.o.c.kles of any criminal's heart. Five hundred smacker-f.u.c.king-roonies packed sardine tight inside all four door panels, the sight of which sends me c.o.c.k-a-hoop. But Danny stays poker-faced and starts c.u.n.ting and f.u.c.king at the heavens, like a s.e.x-starved wh.o.r.e confined to a convent, because he reckons that there's another five motors plotted up somewhere, and all stashed with the same amount of readies inside of each one. With no time to waste we climb into our motor and hightail it back to Canning Town to set back to work on The Bug. Bad news awaits our arrival. Because of the severity of his beating, The Bug appears to be hovering close to death. So after informing Frankie and Stevie we've turned up trumps on one motor, the four of us repairs upstairs to the bar area to conflab and plot our next move.

'He's in a f.u.c.king bad way,' says Frankie. 'Looks like his lungs are filling up with blood. If we leave him here I don't think he'll make it through the night.'

'f.u.c.k that dry-lunch-c.u.n.t,' growls Danny. 'He's cakeo'd. He's gotta pay up.'

'Yeah, f.u.c.k this, says Stevie. 'Let's push him to the limit. If he mullers, too f.u.c.king bad.'

'But if we muller him,' I say. 'We'll have to top Jacko as well, and what's the point? We got half a mil, let's just leave it be. Be bad f.u.c.king karma if we top him.'

'Bad f.u.c.king karma?!' screams Danny. 'What about the bad f.u.c.king karma when he finds out it's us and makes moves to have us topped. Let me go back to graft on the slag, and if we don't get any further joy I'll just slit his throat and throw him in the docks. What do you say, Frankie?'

'f.u.c.k it, Danny, Billy's right. We've got half a mil down to nishmans. Besides, I don't wanna top him, he ain't a bad bloke. Let's just frighten the life out of Jacko and let the pair of them go. Then we might still get a bite of the cherry at a later date.'

But Danny ain't happy at the split in the gang, especially as now it's him and Stevie against me and Frankie. He knows I'm playing the divide and rule game, but f.u.c.k him and his horrible greed. I came out of my house today with only a gorilla in my back pocket, but tonight I'll be going home with an extra one hundred and twenty five thousand of the c.u.n.ts in a carrier bag, and that ain't a bad day's work in my mind. But as the seconds pa.s.s in stony silence I can feel Danny's eyes burning into the side of my head, as if to say my bottle's gone.

'All right, Frankie. If you think its best,' says Danny, knowing that if he tops The Bug without all our consent, it weakens any stand we may have to make a later date, if any of The Bug's firm finds out we're behind his murder. But f.u.c.k Danny anyway. I don't need his blessing over The Bug. If he thinks I've lost my bottle that's up to him. Who does the f.u.c.k does he think he is? The emperor f.u.c.king Nero, standing in the coliseum and giving the thumbs up or down on some poor f.u.c.ker about to be thrown to the lions? So as a result of our firm's discord, The Bug has only lost half a mil and lives to fight another day. But no matter how good his recovery, he'll never be the same man again after the beating he's taken. In order to wrap things up we drag Jacko out of the toilet, and after Stevie takes off his blindfold, Danny sticks a gun in his mouth and warns him that if any of us hears as much as a whisper about this episode, we'll kidnap him and torture him to death. I personally feel that sticking a gun in Jacko's mouth is well over the top, because after the experience he's just had, he didn't need any further threats to get him to keep his mouth shut. It's plain to see that man's s.h.i.+tting red-hot bricks.

With The Bug's condition deteriorating badly we quickly summon up a motor, and as soon as it arrives carry him out of the pub and dump him on the back seat, after which, we order Jacko to drive out as far into the sticks as possible before offloading him outside a hospital. That way it'll be thick-as-s.h.i.+t, carrot-crunching Old Bill that will be snuffling around The Bug, rather than top notch London pigs, who'll suss out it's a gang-related incident after about five minutes of checking out his ident.i.ty and injuries. So while Jacko takes The Bug on a magical mystery tour of the provinces, as he slips into a life threatening coma on the back seat of a stolen car, our firm slips over to our slaughter to divvy up his drug dough.

CLUB FOOT IS a late-night drinker in the bas.e.m.e.nt of a kebab shop on the Dalston Road, Hackney, that's run by a good pal of ours Greek Nicky, a retired armed robber with more form than Desert Orchid. It's a place for proper people to mingle while their tarts jingle, plod free. You wouldn't even know it was there, apart from the b.u.mper-to-b.u.mper prestige motors parked all hours in the streets outside. And Old Bill hardly ever bothers the gaff, because if ever they want to lift a proper face for a little heart-to-heart, the chances are he'll eventually wash up in Club Foot to shoot the s.h.i.+t and share a sherbet with Greek Nicky. So they'll flop on him when he eventually leaves. Saves the pigs on shoe leather and petrol, and also means they ain't got to be hunting about all over the manor. And the straight-goers who live in the street put up with the comings and goings, because our presence keeps away all the s.h.i.+tbag burglars and car thieves. In fact if I remember right, the last time someone's car got broken into down here was about three years ago. A couple of good pals of mine caught the little sc.u.mbag on the job and chopped off a couple of fingers from his right hand there and then. Instant justice, that's what it is. Sort of a bit like the Taliban, but without the turbans and dietary restrictions. After parking up my motor I bowl down the stairs and make my way through the club, garnering discreet respect from various faces huddled conspiratorially around candlelit tables while plotting their next bit of graft. The lights are dim, but then again so are most of the faces that use this gaff.

As I make my way past the bar area, my gangster radar tunes in to a posse of three strangers making way too much noise for a gaff like this. Total f.u.c.king ice-creams by the looks of them. Togged up in cheap suits, they're buying expensive drinks, always a bad sign. After making a mental note of their tobys, I start to work my way between a few empty tables towards my firm, who are seated in a roped off section reserved specially for us, and that takes prime position next to the club's tiny wooden dance floor, where the resident house band, Gabby Reynolds and his Rumour, are in full swing and murdering the jazz standard Smoke Gets In Your Eyes. Not that they're partial about killing jazz, they'll ma.s.sacre anything from Mantovani to Madness. And Gabby, whose voice is as tired as his patter, starts every night with the same old stand-up cornball routine. After stepping up onto the dance-floor stage in his stack-heeled, black patent Chelsea boots, real-plastic strides and fringed country and western s.h.i.+rt, complete with s.h.i.+ny sweat patches under the armpits, he'll stand there peering into the crowd and looking like a little camp teapot, his left hand on his hip and his right hand holding out a double gin and tonic. After which, he'll raise the gla.s.s to his lips and take a slug, put his mouth too close to the over-amplified microphone and say in his cheese-grater rasp of a voice, 'h.e.l.lo, luvvies, I must tell you. I went to see my doctor today and he said, "Gabby, you've got a split personality."' Then there'll be a pregnant pause, until someone with too much booze inside them will shout back, 'Well, why don't the two of you f.u.c.k off home then?' Cue ripples of laughter, followed by Gabby retorting deadpan, 'Sorry, darling, I don't do requests.'

Once the banter's finished it's show time; Gabby'll whisper 'Salute' into the microphone and then ask the audience to raise a toast to the 'Chairman of the Board, the one and only Frank Sinatra.' Which is the cue for his band to launch into an execrable medley of Frank Sinatra cla.s.sics with Gabby running roughshod over the maestro's legacy like a lumberjack treading saw logs, and with hardly anyone in the club taking a blind bit of f.u.c.king notice. But it does strike me as I tip Gabby the wink just before reaching my firm's table, that maybe I should ask him and his band to knock out the Pink Panther theme for Danny, in homage to the disgraceful little pink number he donned a little while back. But Danny probably wouldn't find the joke that funny and would end up wanting to top Gabby. Not that Gabby would mind anyway, I suppose, because the poor f.u.c.ker's just been diagnosed as having inoperable throat cancer, down to his hundred-a-day habit for the last forty years. It's just a thought, but maybe he should change the name of his band to Gabby Reynolds and his Tumour. And speaking of jazz and Gabby's desecration of its hallowed place in our culture, it's just one more thing that whitey's f.u.c.ked up and should have left well alone. Jazz was black American. OK, with more than a little input from a smattering of Yankee bohemian Jews. It was an expression of freedom and rebellion. Four hundred years of whippings, torture and rape by white slave-masters, bottled up and blown out of a jazzman's horn. Spiralling chromatic runs screeching, 'f.u.c.k you, whitey. And your blue-eyed Jesus!'

And not only was it a rejection of all things pale-faced and puritan, you could f.u.c.king dance to it. Well, black people could. Then whitey stuck his Roman hooter in, only problem being he couldn't cut the moves or the mustard. I mean whitey's all right with stuff like line dancing, jigs and polkas, in fact anything that's dead from the waist down, if you know what I mean. So what did he do? He intellectualised jazz and sat down and nodded to it. Then the fat blokes in the hand-knitted pullovers and food in their beards moved in. The dancing stopped, the honeys left for rhythm and blues and the whole scene died a slow agonising death.

'Who's the three ice-creams in the C&A whistles?' says Danny to me by way of introduction, as I pull out a seat to sit down at the table.

'How am I supposed to f.u.c.king know?' I say, pouring myself a full gla.s.s of bubbly. 'Harpo, Groucho and Chico, ain't it?' After which, Frankie and Stevie crane their necks to have a gander.

'Weren't there a fourth one?' says Stevie, his face now furrowed with inquisitiveness.

'Yeah,' says Frankie. 'Karl.'

'Karl Marx was a f.u.c.king communist,' I tell them 'Naah,' says Danny. 'That was that little sweaty-sock with the potato head and the high-pitched voice. The one that got caught in the f.u.c.king toilets.'

'That was Jimmy Somerville,' I say. 'He was a Communard.'

'That what I just f.u.c.king said,' growls Danny.

You know what? Sometimes I don't know why I bother, because it's always the same with these baked-bean brains. A conversation will start off with a sentence that seems reasonable enough, but with the help of these clowns, it'll veer off on some ridiculous tangent and end up on the dark side of the f.u.c.king moon with no one any the wiser. Clever criminals my firm may be, but if brains were dynamite none of them would have enough to blow their hooters. OK, so I ain't no genius myself, but I do try. Suppose I just have to face up to the fact that in my circles I ain't never going to b.u.mp into any members of the intellectual elite, only former members of the Inter City Firm.

'D'you think those c.u.n.ts over there are cozzers, Frankie?' says Danny.

'Nah,' says Frankie. 'Cozzers only wear suits when they're lying their b.o.l.l.o.c.ks off in the box.'

'f.u.c.king door policy in this gaff is going to s.h.i.+t,' says Stevie. 'I mean it should be just full of our own, not c.u.n.ts in plastic shoes with f.u.c.king sparklers in their drinks.' It's a fair point, and one on which we all agree, resolving to give Greek Nicky a strong tug when he appears.

'Where are the ladies?' I then say, surprised to see that none of the wives are in attendance.

'Powdering their f.u.c.king noses,' says Danny. 'They have to all go together, so they don't get f.u.c.king lost on the way back.'

After all agreeing with Danny's light-hearted observation, the four of us then raise our gla.s.ses to pledge our toast of allegiance in a chorus of, 'Never above ya! Never below ya! Always by ya side!' It's total b.o.l.l.o.c.ks of course, but somewhat rea.s.suring.

'Billy, while we're on the subject, help us out with this one,' says Stevie, as soon as we've finished our toast. 'Me and Frankie's just wagered a long 'un. You know that song, 'Why must I be a teenager in love?' Who done it? I reckon it was Oscar Wilde, Frankie reckons it was Marty Wilde.'

'It was actually Dion and the Belmonts or Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers,' I tell them. 'Mind you, if they threw Oscar Wilde in the slammer for f.u.c.king young boys up the a.r.s.e, they should also give Marty Wilde a bit of bird for f.u.c.king up a great rock and roll song.' But there's no time for Frankie and Stevie to wrap their Cro-Magnon skulls around the answer to their question, because it's off. Right out of the f.u.c.king blue, as always happens. No sooner has my last statement gone sailing over my firm's heads, when one of the three ice-creams drinking at the far bar, has goosed Danny's missus on her way back from the toilets. And in the time it takes to shake a p.i.s.sy k.n.o.b dry we're all over them. Danny first, smas.h.i.+ng a broken bowl-gla.s.s into the gooser's right eye. As the sharp edge of the gla.s.s pierces the soft tissue around his retina, a loud squelch can be heard, and the gooser screams like a baby before dropping like a stone to the floor, clutching at what's left of his eye. As Danny then starts to pulp the gooser as if he were of no more consistency than an orange, his pals, rightly sussing that they're well out of their depth, attempt to leg it out of the club, only to find that the place is too dark for them to see properly, and they end up cras.h.i.+ng over an empty table, after which me, Frankie and Stevie cop for the pair of them and spend the next couple of minutes stomping, punching and kicking their pointless f.u.c.king heads in.

And as they cower, screaming under the maelstrom of a ferocious beating, I suddenly come alive, lost in the moment of glorious violence as all my current anger and bitterness flows forth, manifesting itself in an uncontrolled psychopathic fury, meted out to two soft-as-s.h.i.+t straight-goers who are screaming for their mummies, and who, after we've finished with them will be incapable of holding down a steady job or even walking in a straight line ever again. You can't beat dis.h.i.+ng out a beating. I mean shooting someone's OK. Makes the headlines and moves you up the criminal ladder tenfold, but it's too cold and calculating to truly sate a criminal's venomous instincts. Because as soon as you pull the trigger, all your hatred stays in your trigger finger, leaving the bullet to do all the dirty work. It's a cheap way out really, and renders the whole experience of retribution somewhat emotionless and unsatisfactory. But with a good old-fas.h.i.+oned hiding, there's that prehistoric connection of bone crus.h.i.+ng bone. So I'm having a swinging old time, pumping out the poison that courses through my veins, like a polluted river running through an abandoned steel town, and just because I'm a horrible c.u.n.t to boot, the louder the screams from the ice-creams, the harder fall the blows. But still it ain't enough. It never is. So, in a split second of giddy inspiration, I grab hold of a handy looking art deco soda syphon, smash it in two against the side of the bar, and then with the force of thunder, crunch the top part's jagged edges down into the crown of one of the ice-creams' head. You know the crown, it's that bit on a baby's head that's so soft you can push your finger through, as if it were an overripe avocado, and that even in adulthood remains the softest part of the skull. And the force of my strike is such that the top of the soda syphon penetrates at least a quarter of an inch deep into the ice-cream's skull and stays put, causing the silly c.u.n.t to fall back against the bottom of the bar unconscious, and looking like he's p.i.s.sed and wearing one of those silly hats you get out of Christmas crackers.

Now if this was the movies, the band would carry on playing and a barroom brawl would erupt with tables and chairs flying everywhere. But this ain't no John Wayne s.h.i.+t. This is for f.u.c.king real, baby. The band's bottle has gone and they've legged it behind the stage curtain, while at the ringside tables, no one moves a muscle to help or hinder.

Not wanting to put it on Greek Nicky or f.u.c.k up his business by having bloodied and battered bodies clogging up the shop, we drag what's left of the three ice-creams through the club's kitchen, still stomping and kicking and battering as we do so, before leaving them for dead, or whatever, in a nearby alleyway. And that's what happens when you cross over into our world. For even the minorest transgression, we will turn you from a c.u.n.t into a cripple in the blink of an eye without battering an eyelid and no quarter given, especially when begged for. In the extremely slim chance of a gra.s.s or nose-ointment getting on the blower to Old Bill, we slip the cleaner a couple of hundred quid to erase our presence and the ice-creams' blood from the club, after which our firm quickly divides into two separate parties, the three wives into one motor with Frankie and Stevie, while Danny jumps in with me. And although I feel nothing about the ice-creams we've just turned over, my heart does go out to the wives, who are visibly distraught about the violence they've just seen meted out by the fathers of their children, but nevertheless remain shut-mouthed and stoic in finest gangster wife tradition. Using backstreets and rat runs we then make our way back to Danny's house in Canning Town.

'I've cut me hand open because of those f.u.c.king mugs, Billy,' says Danny, switching on the car's interior map light to inspect his wound, a minute or so after we pull away from the club. 'Have a butcher's. What a f.u.c.king liberty, eh! No one, and I mean f.u.c.king no one, touches my missus, except me. We'll put the feelers out and find out who those c.u.n.ts are, and if they're anyone, or think they're anyone, we'll slip round and put a couple in their legs.'

'f.u.c.king right,' I say, still well fired up and my body tingling with s.a.d.i.s.tic pleasure. 'But to be honest, I reckon they were just three mugs out on the Joe Brown and stumbled into the wrong gaff.'

'Reckon they got a good enough hiding though?'

'We nearly f.u.c.king mullered 'em, Danny. Raspberried 'em right up.'