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  Patrick was an anomaly; he was quiet, he was devious and no one ever knew what he was thinking or what he would do next. He went to Mass with his children, he took Communion every week and he had never had a rep as a womaniser; womanisers always ended up shitting on their own doorsteps, that was a phrase Patrick Brodie had used over and over again. He was right as well, Cain and Spider knew that. In the end, womanisers destroyed their families, had to look for a new home, had to deal with the resentment from children and relatives, and ended up in the same position they had been in at the beginning. Another, younger, wife and kids the same age as their grandchildren, and when the novelty wore off they were always out on the prowl once more. Patrick Brodie had no time for those men and the devastation they wreaked because they had no family loyalty, no respect for their wives, the mothers of their children, or the children they had created with those wives.

  The stories about him were whispered, all rumour and innuendo; no one could ever place him at the scene of any crime and no one ever would.

  It was that simple.

  Now Cain had opened his mouth and given Patrick Brodie something to think about; the girl was a liability and Cain had pointed that out to him.

  ‘Relax, son, you just did me a favour. Is it big talk or just rumours at the moment? More to the point, who told you?’

  Spider could hear the underlying threat in Patrick’s voice and he wanted to launch his brother into outer space for his careless talk.

  This was Patrick all over; he was fastidious in his ways and he was almost a prude where his sex life was concerned. But Spider knew that his biggest fear was one of the blokes in their employ telling his wife or girlfriend about the redhead and the news then echoing back to Lil. She was everything to him and he would rather die a thousand deaths than have her hurt in any way, shape or form.

  The fact that he was being talked about because of Laura was a worry, but he was also aware that Dennis’s mother was a friend of Annie’s and Annie would give ten years of her life for a piece of information like this.

  ‘Look, Pat, it was me who opened me trap. I saw you with the girl a few times and it’s not like you, is it? You are usually beyond reproach and Cain just got carried away, that’s all. You know, joking about Delroy, it was just guys together. We would never talk about it outside this room.’

  Patrick grinned then and Cain saw the coldness in his eyes that until then he had only heard about. He finally saw the Patrick Brodie he had only ever heard about and Cain was aware that he would never, ever like to incur the wrath of the man sitting so relaxed and quiet in the chair before him.

  ‘I understand that, Spider. I am a cunt. I just need to know if it is common knowledge, that’s all. If anyone else is talking about me, about my fucking private life.’

  The sentence ended on a shout and Patrick was out of the chair and across the room in seconds. Cain instinctively put his hands up to cover his face, expecting to be attacked.

  Instead, Patrick was at the drinks cabinet and his whole demeanour changed in seconds as he laughed jovially, saying, ‘Fuck me, son. Relax and we can sort this out sooner rather than later.’

  Spider was staring at his brother and Patrick was staring at him as well and for a few moments, Cain wasn’t sure which one of them he was more wary of.

  Laura let herself into the flat in Bloomsbury at about two-fifteen; she had been chauffeured there by a guy called Clinton, who was Patrick’s driver on occasion. She was being her usual imperious self and Clinton had been told to stop and get her some cigarettes, which he had paid for and she had then insisted that he drive slowly because she was spilling the drink she had brought with her from the club.

  Clinton had followed her into the block of flats and she could hear his quiet breathing from behind her as she tried to get her head around what she was seeing. She was wired, speeding out of her nut, but she was still sober enough to realise that there was something radically wrong, even though it was a few seconds before what exactly that was sank in properly.

  The flat was empty, not a piece of furniture or even a curtain remaining. It had been stripped bare of everything except for two cases and a woman’s overnight bag, which were placed in the centre of the lounge.

  Laura was still standing there, trying to get her bearings, when Clinton picked the bags up and walked back down the stairs with them.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ She was screaming at the retreating Clinton like a banshee because she was suddenly aware that her life in London was over. If Patrick Brodie wanted her gone, then she would have to go and that was that.

  Laura was racking her brain for what she could have done wrong, what she might have done inadvertently to offend him and she could think of nothing. So she had thrown her weight about a bit, that was not something he would care about, surely? The tears were hot and salty on her creamy skin and she heard the sound of someone coming up the steps; she assumed it was Clinton coming back to remove her from the premises.

  The place was devoid of anything to say she had ever been there and she wondered if this was the end of the line for her, was he going to make sure she disappeared? Was someone going to kill her? Terror rose up inside her like a wave and she felt the full force of her lifestyle as she understood what it could finally bring to her doorstep.

  Clinton turned off the light and snapped, ‘Come on, we ain’t got all fucking night.’

  Laura faced him, her tear-stained and terrified face making no impression on him at all.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me . . .’ She sank down on to her knees, the fear making her legs weak and her heart beat so loud she could hear it in her ears like a drum.

  Clinton was a small man; he had a face like an angel, as his mother was always pointing out, but he was slight in his build. He was just a driver and a gofer and that suited him down to the ground. Now though, he was finally understanding the buzz that fear could give to you. He was enjoying Laura’s fear, enjoying seeing her brought down a peg or two. She was a whore with big expectations and Patrick had given him his orders and he would carry them out to the letter.

  He stared at the girl for long moments as she sobbed and begged for her life.

  ‘Please, Clinton, don’t hurt me.’

  Laura was imploring him with every ounce of strength she had left, the snot was running from her nose and she could feel it hanging in long strands as she scrambled across the floor to him, begging him, her lovely blue eyes wide with terror, not to harm her.

  ‘Get up, you stupid bitch. You’ve got a long journey ahead of you tonight. You’re the new suck and fuck girl for a friend of Patrick’s in Manchester.’

  Then he unzipped his trousers and said, with a northern accent, ‘Get your laughing gear round that, lass.’

  As Laura looked at him she saw the rest of her life in stunning detail and she realised just what she had let herself in for. The illusion of independence she had harboured all this time was just that, an illusion. She would be dependent on men like this for her daily bread until she was reduced to the streets and alleyways as age crept up on her, and her body gave out.

  Clinton was choking her with his cock and she knew he was enjoying seeing her debased like this, was paying her back for all the slights, the sarcastic comments and the rudeness he had been forced to endure because she was fucking Patrick Brodie. His nails were digging into her scalp and he used her head for momentum, grabbing at the lovely hair that had always been her crowning glory. As he was coming in her mouth she heaved with the sudden taste of his salty, red-hot sperm.

  Clinton left her lying on the floor, her tears silent now and he tidied himself up in seconds. Her bright-red lipstick was smothered all over his penis and his belly. He had enjoyed it so much that he could do it again and he decided that he would do it again. On the way to Manchester he would have her on her knees in the car park of a transport café. He was going to make the most of the opportunity he had been presented with. He knew she was out of his league and he wouldn??
?t pay for it even if he had the money. So this was too good an opportunity to miss.

  ‘But why? What have I done for Pat to do this to me?’ Laura’s voice was low, she was broken and he knew it. More to the point, she knew it.

  ‘You’ve outlived your usefulness, darling, and now you have to go.’

  He was laughing as he dragged her up off the floor by her hair and pushed her towards the front door, making her stumble with the force he used.

  He locked up with her set of keys and placed them in his pocket. Then he walked her to the car, and, pushing her none too gently into the back, he slammed the door with a finality that told her she was off the radar, she was already yesterday’s news.

  Chapter Ten

  Trevor Renton was tired, tired enough to leave the table, but he couldn’t. He had seen off the two biggest wallets in the game with no trouble at all, more fool him, he realised now. The four other men at the table, none of whom were known to him, had played with seemingly unlimited amounts of money and were nothing more than ice-creams who he should have taken out of the game in the first two hands. They were nothing more than three mediocre players and a thieving ponce.

  He had not bothered with them before because he had been too busy concentrating on the real gamers. But now he was convinced that they were on the scrounge, were after his pot; he had started with a fifty on tap and that had turned into a little over a hundred grand. He wondered if he was getting too trusting in his old age, but then again this had been a proper game. No one involved in the set-up had been suspect and he had been assured that the players were good for any debts incurred. Now though, he was not so sure. He had a shit-detector that was telling him that he was about to be scalped and there was not a thing he could do about it. He was a sitting duck and, ironically, this crowd of fucking morons held all the fucking cards.

  Not that he would say any of that out loud, of course. He had far too much intelligence to accuse anyone of cheating at this table, not without the back-up of at least a fucking platoon of Vietnam veterans or a large crowd of serial killers. He was aware of the fact that this really wasn’t his table in any way. It wasn’t on his turf, for a start, and there was no one left that he knew or trusted as he had taken them out of the game. He was in a quandary of fucking Homeric proportions; he knew he was going to be had over, and worst of all, by a crowd of cunts he had seen as so worthless he had not even listened to their fucking names. He was far too well known and far too respected to have to worry about things like this.

  He was backed by some of the biggest names in criminal history; he went into the massive games with their money on him as bets, that was how good he was. He had assumed that this lot he was left with were just the usual bystanders you got in a big game. All hoping to have a bit of luck and when they lost their few quid they’d sit back, swill the free booze and watch the real card players at work. And it was work to him and his ilk. This game should have been something these blokes would have wanted to tell their mates about, the big card game they were in. For once in their life they had sat with the best and that was usually enough for them. He had done this lot a fucking favour and a half, he had knocked out not just the daydreamers, but the real players as well. But no one, it seemed, was being encouraged to stay and watch the climax.

  The other players had just been escorted out the door; he had come back from the toilet to see them leaving under duress. The alarm bells had started to ring then and he wondered what was to become of him this night. Players always stayed; they wanted to know where and more importantly with whom, their money would finally end up. It was the way you brought yourself down to earth after you left the table. Any addiction brought your dopamine levels up sky high, it was what made you stay there and play in the first place, it was also what kept you there afterwards. Just because you knew you had to leave the game didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy it anyway. For most of the real players, watching a good game was the nearest thing to being back in your seat. For the addicted gamblers, not the real players like him and his colleagues, it was the dopamine their brains created that made them stay at the table when all they possessed was lost. It was the dopamine that kept them out all night and made them throw in car keys or their houses; that was what addiction was about.

  For him and other professional card players it was about more than the thrill alone, it was about beating the odds and making a pile. It was about keeping your head when everyone around you was losing theirs. It was about winning, calmly and with dignity.

  He had noticed the other players being ushered from the room but he had a poker face and no one knew that he was bothered or that he had sussed them out. He smiled a small, knowing smile that he had perfected many years before and he sat back in his seat cursing himself for his honesty and trust.

  The man with the large belly and the crooked smile who, he suddenly realised, was scheduled to win all his money, was grinning and mugging with such an undisguised expression of glee that even Helen Keller would have sussed out that she was going to be ripped off.

  The man waved him into his seat with a smile that made Trevor angrier than he had ever been in his life and said with barely disguised menace, ‘I hope you ain’t fucking off as well, Trev. We want a chance to win our money back, eh, guys?’ The other three laughed as if he had just told the funniest joke in recorded history. It wasn’t in Trevor’s nature to cause trouble. He lost with aplomb, a certain cachet, he made sure of that. It was part of his reputation, why people didn’t mind sitting in with him and why he was well past this kind of scam.

  Trevor had never once questioned another player’s tactics or agenda since he had been in the big league. He had never caused a scene of any kind or been the catalyst for anything even resembling trouble. But he was going to cause trouble after this little lot. He was going to cause fucking murders when and if he finally walked away from here. So he smiled and yawned, and he decided that he was going to have to lose gracefully and give them his marker. He had been around long enough to know when he was being shafted and he had been shafted royally by this shower of shite.

  He was unable to leave the game, he knew, because these so-called players, who, incidentally, looked like a parody of Dean Martin and the rat pack, had more or less told him that if he went home now they would not be too thrilled. There was no actual spoken threat but then there wouldn’t be, would there?

  He would lose to them if that was what they wanted; the money was nothing to him, he only ever wanted the game. The game was all that mattered to him and for a few seconds he toyed with the idea of wiping them out completely. Playing them for all they were fucking worth. Fronting it out and wanking them off, but he knew he was playing for his life. Mister fucking Agreeable was going to take his poke one way or another. Only his calm exterior and a big loss would guarantee that he would walk out of this place in one piece.

  ‘What do you want, Trevor? Anything you need you just tell me, OK?’ The young man who was serving the drinks was a handsome and, suddenly seriously nervous, little fucker.

  Trevor guessed, rightly, that he had only just sussed out the situation and was not happy about being witness to anything that might drag him into the world of violent retribution. He was eighteen, top whack, and he was so naive he probably thought Debbie Harry was a natural blonde. Collar and cuffs.

  Trevor grinned and shook his head as if he was happy as a sandboy. The three gooners and the ponce all ordered large drinks and that in itself told Trevor that he was dealing with fucking amateurs. He wanted to scream out at the top of his voice, ‘Have me over if you must, but don’t fucking rub it in and make it so obvious. Have a bit of respect.’

  Trevor was more gutted at the way they seemed to think he was such a cunt that they could just mug him off. He would have had more respect for them if they had just robbed him; an honest robbing would have been preferable to this barrage of insults and foolishness. They were making him feel like a prat. Any real card player worth their salt went off the drink
once the real money was on the table for the simple reason you never knew what might be in it. Certain people got lairy when they were being wiped out. The Faces were the worst of them all; they honestly believed that you were scrumping their fucking wallets somehow.

  Trevor had made a point of never playing Faces unless they had the proper in. He insisted on a guarantee that they were real players. Which meant, of course, that they were happy to lose their money. Most criminals, especially bank robbers, were not natural losers. It was the nature of that particular beast that they tended to take money, not give it away to some bloke with a smile and a better hand than they had. Some had even been known to come back later in the evening with a shotgun and a chip on their shoulder bigger than Mount fucking Rushmore demanding their money back, convinced they had been short-changed. You couldn’t do a lot about that, you certainly didn’t remind them that they had been in a proper game with serious gamblers, not playing poker in prison for fucking peanuts, nine times out of ten with people who had no intention of losing to them. Somehow, that conversation never seemed to come up.

  No one accepted a drink. A real pro got up during a break and then watched the fucker being poured out. In his world the barman would have the fucking sense to open a new bottle in front of his face; it was accepted, expected and it stopped fights. He was being rolled by a herd of fucking imbeciles. Big imbeciles admittedly, but fucking drongos all the same. The real insult was that these fucking Keystone Cops thought he was buying into this fucking lunacy. Really believed that he had not cottoned on.

  In all his years, Trevor had never, ever, been treated like this. Oh, he had seen the chancers and he had observed gooners in his time. When he had first come on the scene he had been offered fortunes to be one. He had refused; he wanted to win fair and square. Gooners were players who were ornaments until the final sting. There was never a gooner of course, in the singular, because a good card man would wipe them out in no time. Gooners worked together so that, like now, when he had knocked out the real players and the pot was a small fucking fortune, they would sit at the table and work together against him. He was expected to believe that they were better players than him, that his luck had gone on the trot faster than an ex-wife with a pools win and an ex-paratrooper for company. He was so insulted that he was determined to make these cunts work for the jackpot. Then he would congratulate them and leave with dignity and a fucking raging hard-on for all their arses. The bar boy winked at him and he wondered if, on top of everything else, they all thought he was a poofter.